


Those of Wit and Learning

by likethedirection



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, For funsies, Non-Chronological, professors!au, standalone chapters that share a world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-01-29 13:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21410872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethedirection/pseuds/likethedirection
Summary: This should have been Sherlock's world long ago; it should never have been Jim's world at all. But here they are.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 21
Kudos: 37





	1. Salix Belligeratus

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who just got back from Wizarding World and decided to post this instead of continuing to sit on it?
> 
> This idea stemmed from a delightful series of tumblr conversations. Credit to [kahuladragon](https://kahuladragon.tumblr.com/), [notagarroter](https://notagarroter.tumblr.com/), thanatosing (couldn't find your account anymore :( ), and [cloudheist](https://cloudheist.tumblr.com/) \- this conversation was a while ago, so if you were part of it and I missed you here, message me at [my tumblr](http://like-the-direction.tumblr.com) and let me know!
> 
> As mentioned in the tags, this is not A Sweeping Tale so much as a bunch of little non-chronological oneshots that happen to take place in the same world.

_ From the Notes of Professor Sherlock Holmes: _

_ Salix belligeratus (Eng. Troll’s Willow), colloquially “Whomping Willow” _

_ Family: Salicaceae _

_ Semi-sentient (enchantment; see p. 83) _

_ Deciduous; knotted; particular. _

_ Consistently aggressive behavior toward perceived threats; 2 exceptions. Possibly reaction to theorized recessive allele m or lack thereof. _

_ Note: Mycroft = perceived threat. Visit willow often. _

-

Predictably, it is Mycroft who interrupts a perfectly pleasant morning. 

“Sherlock.”

“Headmaster,” Sherlock greets, turning a page, enjoying the particular silence of his brother bristling.

“Isn’t there somewhere you ought to be?”

“Here, researching,” Sherlock says, making a note in the margin. “I’m a professor. I’m meant to research.”

There is the creak and groan of a branch lifting high, then crashing heavily down. Sherlock glances up to check whether Mycroft has been hammered into the ground like a nail, but alas, his umbrella is open, its protective enchantments flashing briefly visible with the impact like a burst of fog. Mycroft’s magic has always looked like that, when it shows itself: subtle, like him. Powerful. Insufferable. 

Mycroft stares flatly back at him, unflinching, as the branch sulks away into its place. “A rather perilous location for research.”

Sherlock glances up at the willow, resting a placating hand on its root. _ Yes, he bores me, too. _ “We’ve an understanding.”

“How lovely.” Another burst of silver smoke blocks the root swiping at his ankles. “I don’t suppose you’ve considered the time.”

“What a dull thing to consider.”

“You’re meant to be in the Great Hall—“

“Not hungry.”

“—assisting preparations for the Welcome Feast—“

“Got bored. Left.”

“Ah.” Mycroft tilts his chin down in that way Sherlock hates, as though humoring a pouting child. “You’re hiding.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What was it?”

“_It _ was unimportant. Haven’t _ you _anything better to do?” Sherlock asks, eyeing the folds of Mycroft’s robes, the shape of them at the chest, the hidden rectangle of a letter. “Surely the Ministry is waiting on your report.”

“I can’t imagine what you could be talking about,” Mycroft says dryly, not that he’d be at liberty to say anything else. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and returns to his book on the transformative properties of fluxweed, but the book snaps shut in his hands before he can read another word. He whips a dark glare at Mycroft, who at the very least has the decency to look a bit conflicted, but the book holds firmly shut when he tries to open it again. The familiar anger flashes through his veins, sandpaper-raw, and he hisses, “_Mycroft. _”

“To the Great Hall,” his brother says, seeming to have pushed through his conflict and decided to grant himself grace. “Now.”

Above them, the willow shudders, and a branch slams into the invisible shield before it can slap Mycroft across the face, and Sherlock touches the root again, grateful. “And with which tasks shall I assist?” he asks coldly. “Levitating the banners, or enchanting the candle wicks?”

“You chose this, Sherlock,” his brother quietly replies. “If you still cannot work out how to function at this school, then pursue something else. Anything else, for goodness’ sake. Until you make that choice, it is as you said.” His voice lowers with his brow. “You are a _ professor_. That title is not given lightly. Not here.”

“I’m aware of the implications of my _ title_\--”

“Then you understand the responsibility you assumed when you accepted this position,” Mycroft clips, straightening again. All at once, the book gives where Sherlock is tugging on it and comes open again, the enchantment released. “The students will be arriving soon, and you will be present when they do.” Lifting his chin, glaring through the tree, he adds, “Both of you.”

“Of course, Headmaster,” the other side of the tree replies innocently, and Sherlock fights a smirk.

Mycroft, as is ever the case when it is the both of them, looks unimpressed and deeply weary. “I’ll be back shortly to ensure you haven’t lost your way.”

“All you ever seem to do,” Sherlock says with an unkind smile, and his brother unkindly returns it and turns on his heel, continuing toward the Owlery. He lowers and closes his umbrella once he is no longer in range of the willow, and Sherlock eyes it as he goes. Mycroft keeps his wand in the handle. Cherry wood, the heartstring of a dragon at its core. He can still recall the day Mycroft was chosen, small as he had been at the time. He remembers every detail.

On the other side of the tree, a newspaper closes. “He’s in a mood, isn’t he?”

“He’s always in a mood.” Sherlock closes his book again, decisively, if only because it was Mycroft who opened it. “Particularly on Sorting day. There are few things he finds more appalling than children in large groups.”

“Lucky thing he’s not a proper headmaster.” Whisper of grass, crunch of a leaf underfoot, and Jim leaning against the trunk beside him, dramatically silhouetted by the sun. Deliberate, probably. He holds out a hand, and Sherlock passes him the book, standing and brushing grass and leaves from his robes while Jim flips through the pages. They move as though they were never frozen shut. “Rude little trick.”

“Very.” Sherlock takes the book back when it is offered, lowering his eyes. “He’s done it since we were children.”

“Aww.” Jim misses Sherlock’s glare, busy looking up into the willow’s branches, his head tilted a bit to the side. The tree is still, seeming to breathe in the wind, but otherwise appearing as any other willow might. No assault of branches for Professors Holmes and Moriarty. “Have you worked it out yet?” he asks. “Why she likes us?”

“Beyond the obvious hypothesis, no.” Sherlock follows his gaze, studying the tree as he has a thousand times since his first day at the school. “As satisfying as it would be to suggest it merely dislikes Mycroft, the likelier explanation is that it simply doesn’t perceive us as threats.”

“Nah,” Jim drawls, bringing his fingers to a hanging branch, idly lifting it and letting it go. “It’s something else.”

The tower bell chimes out the hour, and from across the grounds there is the particular boom of Mycroft’s voice undergoing magical amplification. “_Now_, Professors.”

Sherlock, who had in fact been preparing to do as he was told, now slouches defiantly back against the willow’s trunk while its branches swing toward the sound, poised to strike. He sends a dirty look in that direction for good measure.

Casually, Jim asks, “Shall I have him taken care of?” 

The side of Sherlock’s mouth tugs up unbidden, because this is their joke, and his sour moods rarely stand a chance. “Not today.”

They go, wading through the browning grass, the entrance to the castle rising before them, and Sherlock quietly takes a breath. He can never walk through these doors without thinking back to his arrival at this place, and to the roiling dread he’d felt that those doors would not admit him, that they would simply slam shut. As many times as he’s passed through them by now, he still cannot help but brace himself, just a bit, should this be the day they perceive that he does not belong.

As they approach, Jim’s hand catches his. Nothing else, because Jim does not like to talk about true things, but he does like to remind Sherlock that he understands. They pass through the doors as one.

Once through, Sherlock lets out his breath. Already he can hear the buzz of preparation from the Great Hall, when they’ve barely set foot in the entryway. He knows what he will find when they go in: Plates and bowls, glasses and silverware, napkins and ladles will be floating dutifully from the kitchens to the tables, setting themselves uniformly in place, directed by Professor Hudson’s wand; Professor Adler will be at the front, her charmwork in deep conversation with the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling, negotiating; off to the side, Professor Hooper will be speaking quietly to the gathered ghosts, wearing a bright smile that only emerges for them (and, according to a smirking Jim, for Sherlock himself - he is dubious). Professor Anderson will likely be brushing past someone in a huff, swearing under his breath about the school poltergeist, nearly tripping over the many house elves scurrying about underfoot. In the middle of it all, Professor Watson - Mary, she insists - will be delegating and conducting the work with the ease of a seasoned composer, and John - Doctor Watson, to the students - will be somewhere off to the side, watching her proudly, before her lifted eyebrow will order him back to work.

John will spot him and beckon, and Jim will slip away to charm the professors who like him or unnerve those who don’t, because they have never quite belonged in the same space, Jim and John. They are incompatible magnets, resisting each other’s polarity, even as Sherlock stubbornly continues to need them. And John will find a way for Sherlock to assist without the embarrassment of having to brandish his useless wand.

His chin is taken, and his head is turned, and he’s pulled back from knowing - _ knowing _ \- what will happen, back to what is happening. What is happening is that Jim is turning his hand, holding his jaw, tugging him forward to rest against his forehead, because he has followed him right into his knowing, step for step.

“Do you suppose we’ll ever be found out?” Sherlock whispers.

“Probably,” Jim says. “Matter of time.”

“Unprecedented situation,” Sherlock mutters. “Our case would go to the Ministry.”

“Or the courthouse,” Jim agrees. “It won’t be a problem.”

“For you.”

“For us.” Jim’s fingers are stroking the nape of his neck, and Sherlock blissfully closes his eyes, even as tension still grips in his chest. “Suppose they ask us to prove we’re what we say we are. Can’t you just see it? The looks on their faces.” A conspiratorial curve to his voice, the sound of his smile, a cool thumb brushing his jaw. “They can’t imagine what we are.”

Sherlock’s breath releases in a slow stream. “No,” he agrees.

They - _ they_, all of them, with their broomsticks and their bloodlines and their small, searching minds - could never, because at times Sherlock still cannot imagine it, even as he lives it. That the two of them could both exist, in the same place, at the same time, being all that they are and are not. Mycroft froze away any belief in coincidence long ago. This is - they are - something else.

“Aren’t you two sweet,” one of the portraits coos - Helga, always Helga - from her place on the far wall, “but oughtn’t you join the others? I’m sure they could use some good hands in there.”

“Oh, let them be,” says the portrait on the wall adjacent. Rowena remains fond of them. “Their position is unique.”

No privacy at this school, none at all. Huffing a sigh, Sherlock mutters, “Nothing for it, I suppose.”

“Mm-hm.” Jim smiles, stepping back and letting him go. He blows a kiss to the portrait of Salazar; as ever, he only watches them and seethes, his mouth a thin line. “Shall we?”

As they pass through the doors to the Great Hall, they become the people they are to the rest of this school, tucking away the people they are to one another. Professor James Moriarty, Arithmancy, takes a steadying breath as his brain begins to shout numbers at him - because that part is real, that magnificent mind of his greedily devouring data in every moment, and utterly gorging itself at large events like this one, with so many things to be calculated - and his mask clicks into place, and he is one of them.

And Professor Sherlock Holmes, Herbology, takes a sweeping glance about the room - Professor Hudson with the dinnerware, Adler at the front, Hooper with the ghosts, Mary at the center, and there goes Anderson, who should not be Potions Master but is, stumbling to avoid a house elf in his path, boring boring _ boring _ \- and for a moment, he is struck by the unfairness of it. An old anger, the same familiar anger of Mycroft snapping his book shut. This should have been his world long ago. Strictly speaking, it never should have been Jim’s world at all. But here they are.

Here they are, and so Professor Sherlock Holmes, son of wizards, brother of the Headmaster, will go on pretending he has always belonged here. That on his eleventh birthday, an owl came to his window with an envelope in its beak. That he was passed over for the position of Potions Master due to lack of experience, and only that. That there is magic in his blood, even one drop. One drop at all.

Jim’s fingers brush his and then he’s gone, just in time for John to spot Sherlock across the Great Hall and wave him over. Round and round they go. Nothing is new, not really. But Sherlock will go, and he and John will pretend he is helping with whatever task has been set, and at nightfall this hall will be swarming with children who will not spend the end of their eleventh August as he did. None of them will spend tonight sitting hunched under the sheets with a torch and their father’s wand (pear wood, twelve and a half inches, unicorn hair), whispering desperate spells between sniffles, throwing the wand across the room when it simply doesn’t listen. They will not doubt once that they are special, powerful, chosen. And later, Sherlock will meet Jim at the top of the Astronomy Tower to drain a bottle of outrageously expensive wine and remember what they are.

They, too, are special. They are powerful. 

They were not chosen.

“Joining us, then?” John says when Sherlock reaches him, his smile lopsided, not unkind. “Come on. Mary’s got me righting all of the portraits after that business with the pixies the other day. Could use your eye.”

He does not need Sherlock’s eye, but John is one of the few who know about him, just as Sherlock is one of the few who know John’s secret, and he is giving Sherlock a gift. He accepts. Goes along, and pretends to be something the other professors understand. 

Wizards can perform magic; he cannot. Muggles cannot take one glance at a person and _ know _them - how they live, where they’ve been, what they’ve done - but he can.

_ They can’t imagine what we are. _

“Sherlock,” John repeats, and he brings himself back. John lifts his eyebrows at him when he looks over, concern and a question etched just above them, and Sherlock dismisses it with a shake of his head. John is looking a bit ragged, bags under his eyes, and he recalls that tonight is a full moon. He’ll be leaving the festivities early, then.

They begin to make their way around the perimeter of the hall, John adjusting each portrait with his wand (hawthorn, thirteen inches, phoenix feather), Sherlock advising. “I imagine you could also use someone to accompany you this evening. Ensure you get to your saferoom, that the willow doesn't smite you. Six degrees to the left.”

“No, no. You’re not getting out of--”

“Six, not sixteen.”

“--not getting out of the Feast this year. You remember the stink your brother made about it last year, you and Moriarty skipping the Sorting, going off and doing...whatever it is you do, and no, I don’t want to know what that is--”

Distractedly, “Stargazing.”

“Is that what you’re calling it now?” A pause, John’s eyebrows lifting, and Sherlock studies the portrait’s angle and nods. They move on. “No, I'm on thin enough ice having to get a substitute once a month as it is, never mind missing a Sorting. I won't be an accomplice. So,” he says casually, pointedly, "I'll only have you come with if I'm in a _bad_ way, understand, and only as far as the willow. The headaches do get awful. Do you know, I think I may feel one coming on."

Fighting a grin, Sherlock says, “Four degrees to the right. Of course only to the willow. I've an engagement later on.”

"Stargazing, is it?"

"Twelve degrees to the left."

"Uh-huh."

They did stargaze last year. Eventually.

High above, the ceiling ripples with gold, and a canopy of trees in brilliant fall colors shimmers into existence. Golden and silver leaves drift idly downward, neatly vanishing a few inches above each head, and Sherlock pauses mid-step and stands for a long moment, watching them fall. _ I belong here, _ he firmly reminds himself. _ I belong here. _

Across the hall, Jim is watching, too. His face is empty, but his eyes say _ wonder_, and his hands say _ loss_, and the set of his jaw says _ anger_, and Sherlock aches because sometimes he half expects Jim to look back at him in the mirror.

As if called, Jim lowers his eyes from the enchanted ceiling to meet his. Sherlock makes no attempt at masking his own face, as it is a skill he never quite learned nor saw the point in pursuing, and Jim quietly observes on display all that he so carefully conceals. He does not drop his own mask, but he does not look away.

"I'll just finish by myself, then, shall I?" John calls, and as one, they turn away.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock murmurs, catching up with John and focusing, fully assuming his role.

He is Sherlock Holmes, Wizard, and he belongs here.


	2. Prunus Serrulata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can still recall the day Mycroft was chosen, small as he had been at the time. He remembers every detail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless the [Harry Potter Lexicon](https://www.hp-lexicon.org/).

_ From the Notes of Professor Sherlock Holmes: _

_ Prunus serrulata (Eng. East Asian Cherry Tree) _

_ Family: Rosaceae _

_ Color: Cream-white (sapwood), Reddish brown (heartwood) _

  * _Magical properties of heartwood in wandcraft (see p. 216)_

_ Density: Medium _

_ Stiffness: Low _

_ Specific magical properties exhibited in interactions with Dragon Heartstring wand core: _

  * _Increased precision_
  * _Increased potency of lethal curses_
  * _Decreased flamboyance of lethal curses_
  * _Increased flamboyance of nonlethal charms when he thinks no one is watching_

_ Note: Compare behaviors of cherry wood wands containing heartstrings of various dragon breeds - consult G.O. _

-

It was Saturday, and it was sweltering. Mycroft looked uncomfortable and reddish, Dad was tugging at his collar, and Mummy had gained a feral glint in her eye that meant she was _ very _ hot and they must all be on their very best behavior or else. Not that any of that mattered, because Diagon Alley was the most fascinating place in all the world.

He had known, before, but not truly understood. He had known that they were not alone in the world, one strange family on a street of perfectly normal ones, but it was entirely different to be _ here_. When he wasn’t clutching Mycroft’s hand and shying away from the crowds of strangers, he was watching transfixed as the wizards and witches and magic folk went about their business, levitating heavy piles of textbooks alongside them as they walked, straightening their children’s mussed clothing with a flick of a wand, speaking of spells and broomsticks and dragons. Somehow, even knowing, he had always thought doubtfully that perhaps only Mummy and Dad did those things.

“Right, then,” Dad was saying, pulling out Mycroft’s first-year school list, which had been checking itself off with each item they bought. “Uniform, books, cauldron, phials, telescope, scales...nearly there.” He forced a smile, trying dutifully to be the one source of good cheer among the three. Mycroft gave an equally dutiful nod, looking very much like he wanted to dunk himself in ice and spend the rest of the day all by himself; Mummy just kept fanning herself and working very hard not to look cross. After looking between them a moment, Dad dabbed a handkerchief against his forehead and turned to Sherlock, who was bouncing on his toes because he knew exactly what was left. Dad bent down, the tightness leaving his smile, and he asked in a conspiratorial murmur, “Can you tell us our last stop?”

Sherlock would have shouted it, but Mycroft had been very calm and grown-up all day, and Sherlock wasn’t a baby, so he managed to whisper it, even as he vibrated fit to burst. 

“Wands.”

Dad’s smile broadened. “Wands,” he agreed.

The wand shop, when they stepped inside, was dark and quiet like a forgotten place, one lantern on the counter giving off a dull glow. It was just enough to illuminate the walls, and Sherlock quietly gasped, looking up and up and up at the shelves of wand boxes climbing to an impossibly high ceiling. He missed the moment the wandkeeper appeared, occupied with making himself dizzy taking it all in. Then Mummy caught his hand and pulled him back to her side, shushing him, and he realized that the wandkeeper was already talking to Mycroft. 

And Mycroft looked...distracted. Sherlock frowned, because Mycroft never got distracted. 

He was nodding as the wandkeeper spoke, obediently lifting his arm to be measured, but his gaze kept flicking toward the back room of the shop, even as he kept pulling it back to listen. Adults loved to praise Mycroft for being a good listener, for never needing to be reminded of his instructions or his manners, and for being a “very bright young man.” They called Sherlock bright as well, but not a good listener (if he didn’t get to talk, he’d start noticing things instead, and usually miss what his teacher said) and not well-mannered (he was not very good at manners at all). Right now, though, Mycroft’s brow was furrowed as though he were trying to decipher a whisper.

The wandkeeper studied Mycroft for a long moment, then turned away to pull a long, thin box off of one of the front shelves. “This wand is crafted from walnut, a wood that is often a happy match for a wizard with a quick mind,” he explained, lifting away the lid. “Twelve inches long, inflexible but not rigid. In its core,” he lifted out the wand - smooth and dark brown, carved with walnut leaves, the first sight of it setting Sherlock bouncing on his toes again - and presented it to Mycroft, “the hair of a unicorn.”

Dragging his eyes from the back room door to the wand in front of him, Mycroft obediently took it. Next to him, Dad brought out the camera. Mycroft quietly took a breath, then gave the wand a short, tidy wave.

A sharp _ crack _ startled them all backwards as the lamp flickered and a few wand boxes rained off the shelves. After a moment, Sherlock lifted his head from where he’d buried it in Mummy’s side to find that the window had cracked all the way across. He stared wide-eyed, because he didn’t think he’d ever seen Mycroft get in trouble. But the wandkeeper didn’t seem bothered about it as he murmured, “Definitely not,” and took the wand back, and Mummy was beaming, and Dad gave him a reassuring wink when he looked, so maybe it was all right.

And Mycroft was looking at the back room again.

It was curious, too curious, and Sherlock couldn’t bear not to know. Tugging his hand away, he ran to the counter next to Mycroft, ignoring Mummy hissing his name.“What’s back there?” he asked.

They all stared at him, and he looked up at Mycroft and clarified. “You keep looking back there.”

The wandkeeper considered him for a moment just long enough to make him squirm, then considered Mycroft for a longer one (Mycroft didn’t squirm, because Mycroft never squirmed), and then nodded.

“I believe that what is back there, young wizard,” he replied with a smile, “is your brother’s wand, demanding his attention.”

He disappeared into the back room while Mummy caught Sherlock’s hand and pulled him back to her side with a reproachful tug. Frowning up at her, he asked, “How does it work?”

“It’s only magic, dear,” she said, fanning herself again. “Some wands can sense when their proper wizard comes near, and they respond.”

“But if it’s magic, then there’s a wrong way to do it. So there’s a proper way to do it. So, so if there’s a proper way, that means something makes it _ work_, because something else can make it _ not _ work—“

“William,” Mummy sighed, the calm in her voice hanging on by the very tips of its fingers, “we’ll answer all the questions you like once we’re home, but right now Mummy needs you to be quiet and let your brother meet his wand.”

“But—“

“_William_—“

“Sherlock.” Mycroft hadn’t left his place by the desk, but he’d turned his head to give Sherlock the patient, stern look that meant he was quite serious. “I’ll learn the answer at school and tell it to you then. Listen to Mummy.”

Tempted as he was to stomp his foot and argue back, it never went well getting upset with Mycroft when he was wearing that look, so he huffed and turned away to sulk as best he could with Mummy still holding his hand, quickly distracting himself by reading the labels on the wand boxes on the nearest shelf and mouthing each name to himself, fidgeting.

At last the wandkeeper emerged again, a different wand box in his hands. “Here we are. This one,” he said as he lifted away the lid, “is a wand of cherry. A wood of extraordinary beauty, and, potentially, extraordinary power. At its core, the heartstring of a dragon.” He held the wand out with both hands.

Sherlock stood on his toes to get a better look. The design of the wand was clean and elegant - a bit boring, he thought, compared to some of the others, but it was the same sort of boring that Mycroft was sometimes, so maybe that was all right. Dad lifted the camera again. Carefully, Mycroft closed his fingers around the wand.

All at once, he pulled in his breath like he’d just woken up, and a gust of cool clean air whirled through the shop despite the heat of the day, and the crack in the window snapped back together into unblemished glass. When Sherlock tore his eyes from the window to gawk at Mycroft, he only caught a glimpse of the connection as it faded, that silver-gray glow.

“I see,” the wandkeeper said softly. “How interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

“_William_.”

“I’m only asking!”

“It’s quite all right,” the wandkeeper interjected. “Quite all right. I find it interesting, young wizard, that this wand, the wood and core combination of which is known for its subtlety, was not subtle at all in sharing its interest in your brother. That promises a powerful match indeed.” He turned back toward Mycroft, who had courteously lowered the wand, but did not look inclined to let it go. 

He considered Mycroft again, leaning forward over the desk to look him in the eye. “Cherry and dragon are no simple combination, Mr. Holmes. The dragon who provided the core of this wand was one who had lived an extraordinarily long life, even by a dragon’s standard. A wand such as this requires patience and subtlety in its wielder, as well. Have you sufficient subtlety to match your wand, young wizard?”

Politely, Mycroft replied, “I could hardly say.”

The wandkeeper smiled. “Good lad.”

He held out a hand, and Mycroft reluctantly passed back the wand for it to be placed carefully in a box, then relaxed again when the box was back in his hands. Sherlock wriggled away from Mummy when she went with Dad to pay for the wand, grabbing the arm of Mycroft’s shirt and leaning in to better see the box. “Can I see it?”

“_May _ you see it.”

“_May _ I?”

Mycroft looked at the wand box, lips pressed together, then carefully lifted the lid. “Only look.”

Up close, the details stood out more, the wood rich and red and polished, the shape slim and straight, a band of tidy engraving separating the handle from the rest. It was a posh sort of wand. He had never thought of Mycroft as particularly posh, but he did have good manners, and perhaps that was the same thing.

“What did it feel like?” he asked, fascinated.

Mycroft considered. “Like when you find something you’d lost,” he said slowly. “Something you’d forgotten you’d lost.”

Sherlock reached forward to see what it would feel like when he held it, and Mycroft pulled the box away. “Only look!”

“I’ll be careful!”

“No.”

“But I only want to—“

“Son,” Dad called, his tone saying he meant Sherlock, not Mycroft, “let’s settle down, shall we? You’ll have your turn one day, but this one belongs to your brother. It chose him, so he gets to decide who he allows to handle it.”

“Indeed,” the wandkeeper agreed. “Would you come a bit into the light, young wizard?”

There was a brief, confused moment when Sherlock and Mycroft both stepped forward, and then the wandkeeper gestured to Sherlock. Drawing himself up, Sherlock obeyed.

The wandkeeper studied him for an endless while, and to keep himself from squirming again, Sherlock took that while to study him back. He was fascinated by faces, the way they talked without talking. The wandkeeper’s eyes squinted a bit, and then his eyebrows twitched downward, his lips pressing together just a bit, then relaxing. His head tilted to the side. He was seeing something he didn’t expect, Sherlock was certain that’s what his face was saying, but his stomach flipped at the thought of what that unexpected thing might be. Could wandkeepers sense what sort of wizard you were going to be? Was that how they made the match? His mind raced. Maybe it meant he was going to be the greatest of wizards. Maybe it meant he was going to be something terrible.

At last, the wandkeeper made a short hum in his throat, and his face quieted down. Holding Sherlock’s gaze, he said slowly, “The relationship between a wand and a wizard is terribly personal. Wands learn from wizards, and wizards from wands. I understand your fascination with them, as it is a fascination I share.” He smiled, and it was warm, but the shapes around his eyes…

“But they make you sad?” Sherlock tried, attempting to decipher it.

A flash of surprise, and the wandkeeper laughed in his throat. “Clever like your brother, I see.”

“Yes.”

“I see. Well, young wizard, I will only say that just as important as finding a proper match in a wand is _ patience_. You must be patient, with the magic and with yourself. Do that, and trust that when you are ready for your wand, it will be ready for you. Will you give your wand and yourself the time you both need to be ready?”

Solemnly, Sherlock nodded, suddenly aware of a great responsibility to the wand that would one day choose him and a bit overwhelmed by it.

He was still contemplating this responsibility as Mummy gathered them all to continue out of Diagon Alley and to the platform to send Mycroft on his way. He glanced back once more before he was ushered out the door, and the wandkeeper nodded to him, seeming terribly mysterious and wise. “I hope to see you in a few years, young wizard,” he said softly, and Sherlock nodded, then ran out to catch Mycroft’s hand so he wouldn’t think too much to pay attention and accidentally get lost.

He understood. He was not very good at being patient, but he could be patient for important things. It was Mycroft’s job today to get on a train and learn to work with his wand, and it was Sherlock’s job to wait, so he would wait for the day it was his turn, and be completely certain that he was ready. He would wait for his wand to be ready, too, for the day he would hold it in his hand and know what it felt like to find something he’d forgotten he’d lost. He would wait for the moment he would become the wizard he was meant to be.

He would wait.


	3. Bellis Perennis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some days, he half expects Jim to look back at him in the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-posting this chapter, since it looks like AO3 glitched and didn't send out notifications the first time. Thanks for your patience!

_From the Notes of Professor Sherlock Holmes: _

_ Bellis perennis (Eng. English Daisy) _

_ Family: Asteraceae _

_ Perennial, herbaceous _

_ Astringent properties _

  * _Shrinking Solution (see p. 38)_
  * _Herbal medicine_

_Less Common Interpretations: (1) “Loyal love,” (2) “I’ll never tell” _

_ Note: Multiple instances of Fibonacci sequence, collect for JM _

_ \- _

A professor of herbology teaches twelve classes per week: two each for students in Years One through Five who have not yet sat their O.W.L.s in the subject, and one each, double in length, for those students who opt to pursue it in their sixth and seventh years. Three classes a day Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, with a fourth late-afternoon session Wednesday, and one each for the older students on Thursday and Friday mornings. Those afternoons, by mandate, consist of open office hours, largely spent on an unholy amount of grading. This is in addition to time spent planning lessons, if only because Mycroft requires regular submission (the things one could say), and to the hours of research in the greenhouses and the forest that make everything else worth the trouble.

What this means is that Sherlock’s days are full, that at any given moment he likely has three or four plant specimens in his pockets (currently the contents are a handful of lovage leaves, a sprig of niffler’s fancy, and a daisy fertilized in Nan Noreen’s Neverwilt), and that the bulk of his working life takes place out on the grounds. When he goes to the castle, it is to go home.

Home, sometimes, is the set of rooms he gets to himself, with his own collections of items on the walls and mantle, his preferred depth of dust on the shelves, his books all over everything, scribbled and dog-eared and well-loved. Magnanimously, Mycroft undid the bit of schoolgrounds magic that scrambles electronic signals and bewilders technology, at least within the bounds of his rooms, so he can use his laptop and phone there unencumbered. His rooms are home in that on the occasion that someone seeks out his company - John, usually, to drag him whining out into the world when it’s “time to act like a person for a bit,” or occasionally Professor Hudson, come to bring him a plate when he’s missed dinner in favor of reading, and to tut at the state of the place - those rooms are where they will come looking. They are home in that they are his.

Home can also be found down three corridors and up the swiveling stairs, past the portrait of Bridget Wenlock and her seven numerological charts, and just behind a nondescript oaken door. Occasionally, this door is guarded by a silent, full-grown Bengal tiger. A rugged creature, old scars crossing its face, but it only ever watches Sherlock pass by.

(The first time he encountered the tiger, he was startled enough to freeze, and their staring contest lasted until the tiger huffed through its nose and grudgingly lay down, tossing its head in the direction of the door before lowering it onto its paws. Upon entering, Sherlock cleared his throat and calmly shared, _ In case you weren’t aware, there is a tiger in your corridor, _ to which Jim replied without looking up from his computer, _ Well, I’d fucking hope so._)

The corridor was empty today, and Sherlock idly picked the lock, their usual greeting, before showing himself in. 

Jim’s rooms are a study in understated elegance, their decorations few but fine. He can’t see Jim deigning to take a duster or a mop to the place, but he has never seen it less than spotless, except once. The only clutter exists in the form of notebooks upon notebooks full of numbers, piled about the surface of his desk around his laptop, not far from the smart board that takes up nearly an entire wall.

Electronics work in Jim’s rooms, as well. While Sherlock is reasonably certain that Mycroft knows about Jim, he is more reasonably certain that Mycroft must behave as though he does not know a thing, and so would not have made an exception for Jim’s rooms the way he did for Sherlock’s. He is entirely certain that Jim has bought someone, the way he does, through money or information or fear, and that individual now has a vested interest in making Jim’s life and work run as smoothly as possible while keeping his secret. Jim never quite answers when asked about his kind helper’s identity. Sherlock has his suspicions about the tiger.

It is quiet today. Sometimes Sherlock will open the door and grimace at the immediate assault of a pop song blaring from Jim’s speakers, or he will nearly have his head taken off by whatever magical object Jim is experimenting on that day before ducking in to join him. Often, it is less dramatic, and he will barely have shut the door behind him before Jim is chatting to him about his latest research while he wanders the room, as though they’ve both been there the whole time.

Right now, Jim is sitting in the windowsill, eyes darting and lips moving, his fingers scrawling numbers in the air. Formulae. Patterns. Connections and connections. He can do this for hours.

He jerked and muttered _ No _ when his shoulder was touched, so Sherlock set the daisy in the empty vase on Jim’s bedside table, the usual spot when he finds a specimen that he thinks Jim might find useful in his classes. (Currently his third-year classes do not realize they are being taught about the Fibonacci spiral, only that they are learning about the numbers that go into proper potion-stirring and wand-waving.) Sherlock then made two mugs of tea and settled in his preferred chair by the fireplace, scratching test scores onto a pile of generally dull essays, listening to Jim's whispered numbers.

Jim has not mastered coming out of this place, when the numbers grip him, just as Sherlock cannot always pry himself from the palace he’s built in his mind to house his overabundance of data. After ninety-three minutes, Jim’s breath goes uneven. That's all. Sherlock puts down the last of his grading, because he knows what it means.

_ They take me, _ Jim tried to explain once, frowning, disliking words. _ The numbers. They become everything, and I can see everything, and I can't breathe. _ They were threatening to take him even then, just from being recalled, his eyes focusing and unfocusing. Focus, unfocus. _ One pattern too many, you see. _

Jim's lips are still moving, his eyes still chasing numbers across the air, when Sherlock settles across from him on the sill.

"Ten," Sherlock says.

Jim frowns, shakes his head, keeps muttering.

"Nine."

"No."

"Eight," Sherlock continues, slowly and steadily, watching his lips begin to slow, his impossible formula interrupted. "Seven. Six."

Jim's whispers stop, his eyes fixing on nothing, as he is pulled toward Sherlock's pattern.

"Five," Sherlock says, and Jim's lips form the word with him. "Four." A series of rapid blinks, his breath steadying. "Three."

The fingers of Jim's left hand slowly shape a number three in the air, and his other hand reaches out. Sherlock takes it. "Two." Jim closes his eyes, squeezes his hand, opens them, and he is there behind them again. "One."

Jim lets out a long, slow exhale, blinking at the room, at the snow through the window, at their hands. He frowns. "Quill." His free hand grips nothing, and he snaps his fingers a few times, as though attempting to hang on to a memory. "No, fuck quills, why the fuck do we use _ quills_, I need a pen. You had a pen."

Warily, Sherlock produces the one he was using for his grading, one small rebellion against his brother’s insistence on following tradition. "Jim."

"No, I'm fine. I'm fine, I'm here," Jim says distractedly, pulling up Sherlock's hand to press a firm kiss to his knuckles before snatching the pen away, then reaching toward his desk to pluck a notebook from the pile. "I'm here, I just--" Flipping it open, he slaps it down and immediately starts scrawling out a formula.

A natural arithmancer, Jim has been called. ‘One of the greatest arithmantic minds of the age.’ In Jim’s classroom, and in the library, and in the bookshop in Diagon Alley, are copies of _ New Arithmancy: A Comprehensive Treatise on Magic in Numerical Contexts _ by James Moriarty, a book that challenged the definition of the subject in the wizarding world and sparked hundreds of scholarly debates - a book, a traditionalist complained, that was so dense with high-level mathematics that no one could possibly understand it well enough to refute it - when all it had ever been was Jim attempting to collect the numbers shouting their way through his head and pour them onto a page.

People in Jim’s world would look at something like that, not understand it, and call it nonsense. So he presented it to the people of Sherlock’s world, who looked at it, did not understand it, and called it magic.

Sherlock has read the book. Like watching him now, furiously writing out what is in his mind just to put it _ somewhere_, it made him ache with understanding. The pages do not contain magic any more than they contain nonsense; they only contain genius. Sherlock has been exactly that angry about all the invisible things he could see, and they called him a genius then, too. The only difference is that instead of numbers, he sees truths, and instead of a book, he writes a blog. (And occasionally screams into a pillow.)

Finishing his documentation, Jim closes the notebook and tosses it onto the desk as though glad to be rid of it. “Ugh. Jesus.” He digs a hand tiredly through his hair, then slides off the sill, stretching with both arms in the air and straining, “What time is it?”

“Past dinner.”

“_Ugh_.”

Sherlock reaches for the second mug of tea - still steaming, one of the many magical objects Jim collects like a magpie, mugs that keep tea-temperatures just right regardless of time - and stands up to hand it to him. “The house elves will be along shortly enough.”

“Mm.” Jim takes the mug and drinks, leaning comfortably into his side. “Thanks for that.”

For the tea, for bringing him back out of his head, for staying. Jim is rarely talking about only one thing at a time. Sherlock wraps an arm around his shoulders in answer, content.

Eventually, courtesy of the house elves, two plates do appear. They settle in their usual dining spot on the floor by the fire, backs against chair and sofa, Jim occasionally stealing from Sherlock’s plate, ever more interested in what is Sherlock’s than what is his own, and Sherlock retaliating, all the while talking about nothing in particular while Jim re-acclimates to the world.

“It seems the seventh-years are planning another survey this year,” Sherlock is saying as he reaches the second half of his meal, Jim’s plate long since cleaned and set aside in favor of his laptop.

“Mm,” Jim agrees, his typing swift but not hurried, his back a warm line against Sherlock’s arm. “‘Blather.”

“Sorry?”

“B.L.A.T.H.E.R.,” Jim repeats. “‘Brutally, Lovingly, And Terribly Honest Educators’ Ranking.’ It’s what they’re calling it this year, according to the class gossips.”

“Ah. Better acronym than last year, I suppose.”

Jim smiles at his screen. “You didn’t like Academic Ranking Survey/Evaluation?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he spears another bit of potato. “You only liked it because you scored in the top three.”

“Don’t be jealous.” Jim says, smile broadening. The students’ ranking system of the professors ranged from “Frightfully Dull” to “Fantastically Cool,” with Professor Adler leading the pack as always, with Jim and Mary not far behind. A strong showing for a teacher in his second year. Sherlock, at least, did not find himself at the bottom, not that he was paying attention. “Middle of the pack is respectable.”

“The opinion of the student body is inconsequential to me.”

“Careful. If they hear that sort of talk, they may drop you below Anderson.”

“They wouldn’t dare.”

Jim laughs, and Sherlock glances over his shoulder at the computer screen, which at the moment is a wall of code. A hobby, of sorts, but there is also the matter of Jim’s side-job. The side-job, Sherlock suspects, is in fact the teaching; his primary work is something else. Possibly, the sort of work that would result in his posh, Muggle-friendly rooms and equipment, and having an on-call Animagus to stand guard outside his door.

Jim understands numbers, but perhaps even more deeply than that, he seems to understand people. In conversations, it takes him only a moment of interaction to quietly shift into exactly the version of himself that the other person hopes he will be (or, on some occasions, the version they hope he will not be). He understands what people want, and what they fear. And so he gets what he needs to keep his secret, and he gains popularity with his students, and not one of them has truly met the man they were speaking to at all.

Finishing his plate, Sherlock sets it aside and reaches for his own laptop, opening it up to work on the next entry for his blog. It was part of his recovery after rehab, years ago: he could not do magic, but he could do things other people could not do, see things they could not see, and he could reconstruct his identity through that fact. So he keeps his two nearly-identical blogs: _ The Science of Deduction_, for the muggle world, and _ Legilimency of the Mundane _ for the magical. The latter is a small side-column in The Daily Prophet, the former a website. 

(To this day, he puzzles over the look on Mycroft’s face when he announced he would be writing for the Muggle world as well. It was something like mourning, but something like pride, and a spectrum of things in between, just for a moment before he managed to close it all up again. Sherlock considers himself very good at reading faces. That one still eludes him.)

They type quietly for a while, nothing in the background but the crackling fire, the sprinkle of snow against the window. Eventually, Jim either finishes or tires of his coding and rolls his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, watching him write. Long before starting at this school, Sherlock would often receive comments on the Muggle blog from someone who only went by ‘Anonymous.’ He quickly learned that the mysterious commenter was playful, insightful, and incredibly clever. It was only after Jim started at the school last year that he started receiving comments on the Daily Prophet column as well. When at last Sherlock asked Jim outright about it, he only smiled.

He is smiling now, as he reads, and Sherlock is briefly struck with fondness for him that nearly overwhelms. Turning a bit, he presses a kiss to the top of Jim’s head as he types, earning a quiet sigh.

They haven’t spoken of certain things. Certain words. But more nights are spent this way than not, simply existing in the same space, acting and thinking and breathing in parallel. Sherlock has clothing in the closet, books on the shelves, a toothbrush in the holder. Jim’s rooms are a refuge from all of the _might-have-been _and _should-be_ that this school represents, and Jim’s mind is a refuge from all of the minds that were built so very differently from his, and Jim’s heat and breath and heartbeat are a refuge from everything else.

Later, when they are going to bed, Jim lies on his back and looks at the daisy in the vase, still fresh from the Neverwilt, for a long while. He looks up when Sherlock gets in next to him, and he does not always allow his thoughts to make it to his face, but just now his expression is open enough that Sherlock can read certain things. Certain words.

Jim reaches for him, and Sherlock meets him in the middle. The kiss is not long, but Jim keeps him afterward, holding him close with fingers in his hair, breathing his breath. Sherlock closes his eyes.

Home is here.


End file.
